Rache
by Riveting Red Pants
Summary: John would take a bullet for Sherlock . . . John DID take a bullet for Sherlock. Now Sherlock is left alone to solve the murder. But is he really alone?


**I got a request for an angsty Sherlock fic from Violet Butterflies, and I have had this one sitting around for some time now waiting to have life be breathed into it. Enjoy my loves~ As always, read and review, and if you have any requests, let me know and I'll see what I can do.**

**Rache**

**Chapter One: **

Sherlock walked the streets alone. Only he wasn't alone. John shadowed behind him, sticking to the walls like a puff of smoke. He had Sherlock's back, as usual. He would always have Sherlock's back, and Sherlock's would always have his. Sherlock walked briskly along the damp London streets, looking. He was looking at everything, observing everything. Sherlock was the bait, he was supposed to wonder into this trap, supposedly unknowingly, and then John would take out the killer that had been luring people to their deaths over the past few weeks. Sherlock stopped short, and John let out a breath as adrenaline pumped through his veins. This was it. He was going to shoot someone. He felt as if time was starting to slow.

Suddenly Sherlock spun on his heel and screamed something. He had miscalculated, it seemed. The trap wasn't for him.

"JOHN!" He shouted, diving towards his doctor. He was not in time. John felt the bullet rip through his chest, and he felt his head meet the ground. He felt the blood filling up his lungs slowly. He felt Sherlock grab his body and lift it up, his hands nervously fluttering around the wound, ripping off his scarf and pressing it to the bloody gash in John's chest. "JOHN NO! JOHN STAY WITH ME! STAY WITH ME JOHN! HOLD ON! SOMEONE HELP!" John hadn't been the only one in the shadows, after all. Lestrade rushed up to his side, Donavan and the others running in as well.

"I would've died for you . . . a thousand times over . . ." John mumbled, blood bubbling out of his mouth. "You're my . . . my best friend." and just like that, John faded away.

"NO!" Sherlock screamed, actual tears burning his eyes. Sherlock was briefly aware of hands on his back, someone tugging at him, and he shoved them away. He lay there, holding his best friend in his arms. Warm blood seemed to cover both of them, and the world seemed decreased. Suddenly, what had once been an entire planet, spinning through space, was now only this. Only him, holding John. Only blood and tears and pain. Sherlock put a shaky hand up to John's eyelids, closing them gently. Everything seemed to shake around him. What would his life be now that his best friend was gone? And then, Anderson's voice came out of his memories.

_"Rache. It's German for revenge."_ The world expanded again. Sherlock was aware of everything all at once, he was aware of the yarders standing around him in a protective circle, guns drawn. He was aware of Lestrade's voice, ordering,

"GET THEM OUT OF HERE!" He was aware of a shadow in a building, moving fast, running away. He was aware of his sole purpose in life, now that John was gone. Revenge.

The funeral must have been sad. It must have been beautiful. Black clothes of mourning on the fresh new green of the grass on the sullen gray of the London sky. There must have been a lot of people there, probably with a lot of flowers of all different colors, a myriad of love and respect for the wonderful man that had been. There must have been a lot of touching speeches, some stories which over emphasized John's wonderfulness, some which truthfully emphasized it just enough. His parents were probably there, crying over the grave of their fallen son, fallen not in battle but in friendship. Even Harry was likely to crawl out of her alcoholic slumber for the funeral of her dead brother.

Sherlock wouldn't know. He didn't bother to go. Mrs. Hudson nor Lestrade nor Molly could get him to move from his chair. He sat there, day after day, hands steepeled underneath his chin. They all thought he was in mourning, his own, Sherlockian style of mourning. Molly had knelt in front of him and cried, putting a hand on his knee and trying to give him her strength, what little of it she had. He had finally snapped out of his daze to look down at her.

"I am fine Molly, go away."

"But Sherlock-,"

"I am fine." With a small quiver of her lip, Molly was gone out of the flat, turning one last time to say,

"If you need anything at all . . ."

"I know where to find you." She smiled and nodded and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Sherlock sat and thought for what must have been days, but he didn't really know. He was slowly picking apart the entire scene of John's death. He sat and thought about John for so long, that when John appeared sitting in the chair in front of him, it almost didn't shock him at all. Sherlock wanted to tilt his head to the side and make some quip about "Oh I didn't notice you had been gone." But then he realized the inevitable truth.

"John?" His voice croaked from days of misuse.

"Sherlock."

"But . . . you can't . . .this can't be possible." Sherlock stammered. John gave him a smile that spoke of pure sass, there was no other way to put it.

"When you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth."

"Don't quote me at me." Sherlock responded, annoyed. "So then . . . you are . . . a ghost?" John nodded.

"What have you been up to since I've been gone Sherlock?"

"Solving your murder, naturally."

"You're doing a rotten job."

"I had to think."

"You're taking a bit long, I mean . . . you _are _Sherlock Holmes. I thought you could think faster than that."

"I . . ." Sherlock let his sentence wonder off as he stared at his best friend. "I might have been slightly . . . emotionally compromised."

"You miss me?"

"Of course I miss you John!" Sherlock burst out, throwing his hands up in to the air. "You are . . .you. . . you were my best friend." His voice choked on the last word, cutting off with emotion. Ghost-John couldn't do much but give a sympathetic look.

"I missed you too Sherlock. But I'm here now. I'm here for you. We're going to get through this together."

"How can we get through it together when you're dead?" Sherlock asked, feeling like a child again, a child sobbing because he had had a bad nightmare.

"We just will. You have to trust me. Now let's catch this bastard."

"Okay . . .okay let's do this." John grinned.

"That's the Sherlock I know. The game is on."


End file.
